


Sorry John lmao xoxo

by CaptainNautical



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John Watson Whump, John Watson-centric, Johnlock - Freeform, John’s Scottish, M/M, Scottish John, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, accent kink, only a bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21754096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainNautical/pseuds/CaptainNautical
Summary: So this is going to be home for all the one shots I write that are all Hurt John Watson fics in some way. Wether that be emotional or physical hurt is up to how I’m feeling I guess. John tends to be my punching bag character. I’ll always post warnings of potentially harmful topics/scenarios.Also, it’s always lovely to hear what you guys think. It honestly really motivates me to write more. So leave a comment if you want!(Also don’t be fooled by the title these are serious works I just think i’m funny)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 110





	1. Hypothermia

**Author's Note:**

> Just a warning that this one doesn’t really have any comfort to the h/c formula. I promise not all of them will be like that. I’m just fickle sometimes I guess... Hope you like

“I fucking hate snow.” John muttered. 

“John. Shut up.” Sherlock replied

There was a muffled but hard thump. Sherlock cursed and was thrown off balance. He turned and smacked John back on the leg. 

“Will you two cut it out? Bloody children.” Lestrade grumbled next to them. 

The three men were sitting at the top of a hill looking out to a frozen lake. On the other side of said lake was a cabin. Inside the cabin lived two suspects. Two suspects attached to a string of missing person cases. They had followed them from London to the Irish countryside. It was snowing. Normally Sherlock wouldn’t invite the detective inspector to one of these but the man insisted that if they were going to make a move that he come with them. John agreed that it’d be better to have three on two if things went to hell. 

Right now though, Sherlock was regretting inviting both of them. 

They were sitting in three different directions on the hill. John was looking the opposite way of Sherlock and Lestrade was looking to the side of both of them. The hill they were on acted like it’s own little island. They could see a 180 degree view of the surrounding area. They were, however, sat in a pile of snow. 

“You two do this a lot then?” Lestrade asked quietly, wiping his face with the back of his glove. 

“Yeah.” John nodded. “‘S a hobby, really.” 

Lestrade chuckled. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “When the case calls for it.” Replied Sherlock, seriously. 

“Usually this silent?” Lestrade asked. There was a crinkling noise of Greg looking at the both of them for a moment. They were all bundled up tightly. Any movement sounded like ten pieces of velcro rubbing against one another. 

The other two didn’t answer. He had heard them arguing on the train earlier. He just hadn’t heard what about. Greg knew John hated that he had to be out here. Maybe they had had a row about if the case were worth it. 

John sniffed and rubbed his nose. “Dead around here, eh? It’s Saturday. Think these rich folks would be up and about.” 

“It is kinda weird.” Greg replied. “Supposed to be packed during ski season.” 

“Theyre scared of our subjects.” Replied Sherlock cooly. 

“You think?” John asked.

“Obviously. They read the papers. They know the Perry twins reputation.” Sherlock put down his binoculars and kicked some snow off his foot. 

“Used to go skiing around here.” Greg said after ten minutes of silence. Sherlock groaned at the small talk. John shot him a look that neither man saw. 

“Yeah? Any good at it?” They never got to just sit down with Greg. John always liked the guy. He had offered to get him a pint once and a while but... well, it never happened. 

“No. Rubbish.” Greg chuckled. “I wanted to snowboard because it was cool, y’know.” He looked at John who grinned back. “My brother could so I wanted to.” 

“Shut up.” Sherlock said miserably.

“Oh, sod off.” John sighed, giving Sherlock a light shove to his back before shifting in the snow a little. “I’ve no experience with snow sports, really. Is it harder to ski? I always thought maybe balancing would be-“ 

“Skiing requires a lot of skill.” Sherlock mumbled. 

“Yeah? I was askin Greg.” John sucked in a part of his lower lip. Sherlock’s head moved slightly. John couldn’t see he was echoing what he said silently like a child would. Greg raised his eyebrows a bit. 

“I’ve got no balance.” He said finally. “Skiings a lot easier for me. I throw my weight around too much on a board.” He was digging in the snow with his hands. His eyes looked over to where a car was rolling down the street. A mini van. Not the truck they were waiting for. “One time I absolutely bit it getting off the ski lift.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I was on a board at the time and the kid next to me was being a complete arse. He was dancin or something, I can’t remember.” He was smiling a little. “I had thought we were a lot closer to the ground. So I was like, i’m out of here, and kicked myself off the lift.” 

John made a noise. 

“Boof.” Lestrade smacked his hand against the snow. It made a crater were it had sunken in. The image of Lestrade landing spread eagle like that had John giddy. He laughed, pressing his gloved hand against his mouth. Lestrade laughed with him, shaking his head and turning back to where he was supposed to look. Sherlock sat up straighter and cleared his throat. John’s laughter cut off slightly and he rubbed his eyes, turning away from the detective. 

It was quiet for a long time after that. John was shivering slightly. He pulled his hat lower on his head, bringing his knees closer to his body and resting his chin on his snow pants. He sighed. 

“They’re not gonna show.” He finally said. 

“Impossible.” Sherlock replied. He could just barely tell that Sherlock’s teeth were shaking a bit. 

“It’s too bloody cold to stay out here much longer.” John sniffed. 

“They’ll be here.” Sherlock said. 

“How do you know?” Lestrade chimed in.

“Everything on their social media pointed to them coming back to their cabin tonight.” 

John huffed. “Well i’m not gonna- wait.” He sat up. Sherlock and Lestrade turned at the same time. “Hey, that’s their truck.” John said quietly. 

“Where?” Sherlock practically demanded. He shoved John over slightly to get a better look. 

“Git.” John shoved back, pointing in Sherlock’s line of sight. “It’s sitting right there by that gate.” 

The red pick up was sitting idly with it’s lights on. One man was leaning outside of it talking to a woman with a big coat on and a pair of boots that were too big for her.

“A neighbor?” Lestrade asked. 

“Yes. They’re talking about the neighborhood. She’s nervous.” Sherlock said, looking through the binoculars. 

“The other one there?” John squinted. 

“Passenger seat.” Replied the detective. “Doesn’t look happy.” 

John snorted. “Brothers better at keeping face I guess.” 

Sherlock nodded. The man waved to the woman as she turned to walk back inside. Sherlock could read him saying ‘good night’ before pulling himself back into the truck. The two brothers seemed to start bickering almost instantly. 

“As bad as you two.” Lestrade said, looking through his own binoculars. The man driving smacked the slightly smaller brother on the chest. 

“He’s got blood on his face.” John murmured. 

“No. Does he?” Lestrade was following the car with his head. John didn’t have any binoculars on. 

“Isn’t that blood? I saw it when they passed a light.”

Sherlock focused on the second brother when they reached a stop sign. They stopped longer than usual to argue with one another. The smaller brother had three scratches on his cheek. They looked like nails. 

“It’s blood.” Sherlock nodded. 

The three men made their way down to the shoreline of the frozen lake. Right now Sherlock and John were behind a tree while Lestrade crouched next to a large fern. 

“So what, we’re just gonna walk across the bloody lake?” The detective inspector hissed. 

“At least one of us. We have to make sure no ones in that house besides the brothers.” Sherlock crouched and trained his binoculars on the car parked in the driveway. 

“We could just go around.” John said. “Go back the way we came and walk around the hill.”

“That’ll take too long.” Sherlock shook his head and looked at his phone. 

“What if they see us?”

“They won’t be able to. The hill up to their cabin is at such an angle that it obscures where we are exactly.” 

“Sounds like bullshit.” John murmured.

Sherlock glared at him. 

“I dunno. That ice looks bloody scary.” Lestrade said. “I don’t think it’ll hold us.” 

“No, not all of us. Somebody smaller perhaps”

Lestrade and John looked at Sherlock. Lestrade and Sherlock looked at John. John looked at Lestrade and Sherlock. 

“Oh fuck off, the both of you.” John shook his head. “I’m not going across there.” 

“John it’s perfectly safe. It’s been frozen for a week now.” Sherlock sighed. 

“If it’s so safe, you do it.” 

“I dunno, Sherlock.” Lestrade pitched in. 

“Lestrade.” Sherlock shot him a look.

“The fuck is up with you lately, huh?” John crossed his arms. “What are you so cross for? You’ve been a child this entire trip.” 

“We’re not doing this now.” Sherlock bit back. “If you’re not gonna go then I will.” Sherlock took a step on the lake. John grabbed his arm and pulled him back. He made an exasperated noise. 

“Hold this.” John commanded. He shoved his overcoat into Sherlock’s arms. 

The army doctor took a couple steps out onto the ice. It was covered in snow and seemed thick enough. It gave an ominous crack under his feet, but other than that it seemed sturdy enough at least for him. 

“Take pictures.” Sherlock hissed. John waved his hand at him and produced his mobile from his pocket to reassure the man. 

Lestrade and Sherlock watched from the edge. The detective was still holding John’s jacket the same way the doctor had given it to him. 

“You’re lucky he’s so patient.” Lestrade said quietly. John was about half way across the ice. He was moving slower the farther he got out. 

“Yes. If he goes too quickly he might disturb the-“

“No.” Greg sighed. “No... you’re lucky he’s so patient with you.” 

Sherlock looked over at him. Lestrade was looking straight ahead. Sherlock sniffed and looked away. “Suppose I am.” He murmured, barely audible. 

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “You agreeing with me?” 

“What?”

“Did you just admit I was right?” 

“Oh, Lestrade, don’t make me regret letting you come along.”

“Oh no I was coming wether you idiots liked it or not. If I hadn’t-“

“Oi!”

Sherlock and Lestrade’s heads snapped upwards. At the top of the hill on the other side of the lake, the smaller Perry twin was climbing over the fence. Lestrade and Sherlock stood. John was almost at the shoreline. How the fuck had they seen him? Were they watching the whole time? 

“John!” Sherlock said, almost to himself. The two men could see a puff of air leave John. He was sighing annoyedly. The red head at the top of the hill was tumbling down it, yelling in his Irish accent about private property or something like that. Sherlock took a step onto the ice before Lestrade yanked him back. 

“Wait! Let him handle this. They haven’t seen us.” 

John had his hands up and was talking to the smaller guy. The two on the opposite side couldn’t make out what either were saying. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

The ginger was on the shore looking cocky. John was acting cool and talking back and forth. The ginger seemed to relax (maybe) and turned. John took a couple cautious steps onto solid ground. Whatever lie he had come up with seemed to work. The ginger motioned for John to follow him up the hill. John relaxed a moment and looked back in Sherlock and Lestrades direction. 

As soon as he had looked away from the ginger, the smaller Perry twin wound back and socked John in the jaw. They could hear the connection from all the way back here. Sherlock made a noise and Lestrade flinched. John’s head whipped to the side and his body fell onto the ice with a hard thump. 

Before anyone could do anything to react, John was moving again. He grabbed the gingers ankle and pulled, knocking the other off balance. Both men were the same height and had a similar build, but John had a few pounds on the other and strength hidden underneath all those layers. Sherlock and Lestrade were both one step onto the lake as the two men on the other side struggled. They both knew John could handle himself in a fight. That was really the only thing holding Sherlock back from sprinting across the lake. That and the danger of falling into it. 

The ginger kept wriggling out of John’s reach each time he seemed to knock him down. The two men were practically wrestling on the ground now. John had been able to use his weight to pin the other on his front. Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he watched John grab the others hair, lift his head up, and slam it down onto the ice. There was an echo of a crack and the body under John stilled slightly. 

The army doctor was panting, his breath coming out in sheets of fog from the cold air. He sat back on his knees when the ginger seemed to stop moving. John made sure he hadn’t done too much damage to the guy and scrubbed his face a little. He was about to roll off him when he felt the ginger move. 

It happened really quickly. One moment the guy was still. The next he was whipping his fingers up to his bloody mouth. A piercing whistle shot through the air. It was loud even for the men on the other side. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. What the hell was- 

A different shot rang out in the air. Someone had fired a shotgun up into the night sky. It took John two seconds to recognize the body throwing itself over the fence and down the hill before the doctor picked himself up and ran back across the lake. The larger Perry twin was tumbling through the snow to get to his brother. He reloaded his shot gun as he went. 

“No, John!” Lestrade yelled. The doctor hadn’t thought which way to run. He had acted immediately and was coming back where he came. He shouldn’t be running on the ice. “He shouldn’t be running on the ice!” Lestrade said, panicked. 

“I know. I know.” Sherlock smacked Lestrade on the arm. He grabbed the browning out of John’s coat and cocked it. 

John’s feet were stamping on the ice. It seemed like such a short distance when someone wasn’t pointing a shotgun at him. Another shock echoed. John almost screamed in surprise. The blast had sent a chunk of ice hurling past him. He stumbled for a split second to hear another shot, but not the shotgun. Sherlock was shooting from the opposite shoreline. 

What a bloody nightmare, the doctor panted to himself.

John picked himself up and ran. 

The blood was rushing in his ears. He couldn’t hear the shots. He couldn’t hear the shouting back and forth. He couldn’t hear the cracking noise under his feet. For some reason all he heard was him arguing with Sherlock. 

Another blast echoed behind John’s ears. He felt something cold and sharp hit his back solidly. He stumbled to his knees with the force of the hit. As soon as his left knee hit the ice, it shattered underneath him. Distantly he could hear shouting. The shock of cold water made him gasp, his lungs screamed at him. He yanked his leg upwards and pushed to try and hold himself up. His right palm landed on the ice and broke right through it. He heard a shot ring out and suddenly John couldn’t see. He was underwater. 

Everything was gray for a long time. The world swayed back and forth gently as if it were sighing against the breeze of winter air. It felt like the whole world was suspended in water. 

John gasped, except no air came to his lungs. His eyes slammed open. He was being pulled under water. He couldn’t breath. Holy shit he couldn’t breath it was so cold what- 

John banged his fist against the ice above him. He dug his nails into it to try and stop himself from moving with the slow current. Bubbles escaped his lips with the effort of trying to do anything at all in this frigid water. John pounded again and again, his body growing limp as he tried desperately. He felt a crack underneath his fingertip. He pressed on it almost lazily. John didn’t have the strength to pound anymore. His muscles locked up around him as his hand tried reaching forward again. John’s body was sinking. 

Until suddenly, he wasn’t. Something had happened that he couldn’t make out. His vision was going gray. He couldn’t see the two pairs of hands grabbing onto him. He barely felt the tug of ice that cut his skin as he was lifted, lifted, lifted out of the water. 

Sherlock and Lestrade had caught up to him in a particularly thin patch of ice. They had lost track of him until John’s hand pressed up against the surface, just barely breaking through. 

John was gasping, his body screaming at him as two voices spoke and wrapped him up in something. The shaking started as soon as he was lowered back to the ground. Except it wasn’t the ground. What was he leaning on? 

He looked up to see a face. 

“Sh-“ John’s teeth chattered violently and he pressed his lips together again. His eyes squeezed shut and he moaned, shaking with pain. 

“John, John, John.” Sherlock was repeating. The detective was pulling John closer, rubbing at him all over and wiping the hair off of his forehead. John’s stubble was already frozen over with a sheen of ice. His hair was hard and brittle. Lestrade was on the phone with the police but came over and dropped his hat onto the two men. Sherlock put it on John instantly. John presses his head against Sherlock. His body curled up onto him as he shook. 

“F-fuck I-“

“Sh John, don’t talk. It’s alright. I got you.” Sherlock was speaking. He could barely hear him. 

“Fuck I’m so cold it hurts-“ John choked. He coughed, water still not fully out of his lungs. “Oh fuck- I don’t- I-“

“John, John, shh it’s alright.” Sherlock cupped his face with his hand. “Calm down. Breath with me.” Sherlock grabbed onto his hands now and pressed them to his chest. “I got you. Okay?” 

“Sh-shock... h-hyp-“ John was chattering. 

“I know. I know. Lestrade’s getting help right now. He’s just called an ambulance. He’s getting the blankets from the car.” Sherlock shifted. “Stay with me, John.” 

John shivered constantly. His purple lips trembled. “M... m sorry I yelled at you.” He stammered out. Sherlock looked down at him. 

“John...” 

“I- M so tired.” 

Sherlock shook his head. “You have to stay awake with me, John.” 

“M not mad at you.” John murmured, quieter than last. 

“John please. Now isn’t... I can’t...” Sherlock looked panicked. 

John’s head lolled to the side. 

“No, no, no, John. Wake up. Wake up right now don’t do this.” 

John fell back into gray.


	2. Beaten and bruised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for use of the F slur and T slur once in the same paragraph. Also there’s mention of harm towards the LGBT community and a lot of physical violence.

He rounded the corner to find John fighting with the suspect. Sherlock ran forward and collided with a chain link fence he hadn’t even registered was there. He was too focused on the blood on the ground and pin pointing who it belonged too. 

John was kicked off of the criminal (a guy in his mid thirties charged with over twenty assault cases towards gay men, women and persons on the nonbinary spectrum) and collided with the brick wall of the alley. He grunted slightly and wiped the blood off his nose. John flicked his eyes to the side and saw Sherlock behind the chainlink fence. Finn Thompson (said criminal) was clutching his chest and breathing hard.

“Hey, Sherlock.” John said, standing himself back up. “Glad you could make it.” He sniffed and staggered for just a moment before righting himself. “I got stuck on that side at first too. You gotta go all the way around the-“

“John-“ 

Finn had scooped himself up and rammed into John. John had just a moment to brace himself before he collided once again with the wall. “Wish you two would leave me alone.” Finn grit his teeth. John was pushing back against him and giving him one hell of a time. 

It was impressive really. The guy had a good two heads on John but the army doctor didn’t seem affected by the disadvantage at all. Sherlock looked at his clock on his phone. 

“John, I really would love to get to that bakery on this side of town. If you could hurry it up we could make it there before the rush.” Sherlock sighed.

Finn currently had his hand on John’s face and was pushing against it in some kind of attempt to wrench John off him. John huffed in reply.

“Yeah be right there.” He grunted. 

The struggle on the wall was getting them literally nowhere. John decided to try and change strategies. When Finn took a breath and shoved John once more, the smaller man went boneless. Unable to account for the amount of dead weight John suddenly handed Finn, the man stumbled and stepped backwards. John rugby tackled him to the ground. 

“Well done.” Sherlock said, leaning an elbow on the wall. 

Finn was stunned as John struggled to turn him over. John clearly had the power in this position, though. He straddled the larger man’s back and pressed his head into the concrete as he went to grab his cuffs he had stuffed in his trousers. 

“You fucking faggots.” Finn spat, his own bloody nose making a mess of the ground. “I’ll kill you just like I killed that fucking tranny.” John stilled. 

“What’d you just sa-“ Finn rolled, using John’s pause to his advantage. John cursed and was caught off guard when he opened his eyes to find the brute suddenly on top of him. 

“I said I’ll kill you and your fucking boyfriend.” He was smiling, the blood dripping off his face and onto John’s. Finn had John’s arms pinned to the ground under his knees. His right knee was pressing firmly into John’s left shoulder and he grit his teeth, struggling underneath the man. Finn caught sight of Sherlock turning to run around and help John. 

“Uh uh.” Finn shouted. Sherlock turned to see the idiots huge paw pressing down on John’s neck. The detective stopped immediately. “You stay right there, Mr. Holmes.” He spat. 

Sherlock banged against the fence in frustration. He tried to reach in his pocket but Finn pressed down harder, wrapping his fingers around John’s throat. John gasped without meaning too. He grit his teeth and tried to pull his head away. Finn scowled and lifted John’s head by his hair with his other hand and slammed him back into the ground. John made a noise that could barely be heard over Sherlock’s shout of anger. The doctor’s eyes fluttered slightly. 

“You try and do anything funny and I’ll choke him out just like a did that little trans fucker.” Finn spat on the ground. John’s eyes blinked out of his stupor. He thrashed underneath his captor.

“You fucker.” John slurred, anger seething through his teeth, “You didn’t!” John’s words were thick and labored. Finn smiled and nodded his head. 

“You idiots have been looking for me all night.” Finn Thompson smiled wider down at John’s horrified face. “You ever make sure ‘an check up with your client?” Finn was laughing. John thrashed again and was stopped by a hand on his neck. John was cursing and seething, struggling to do anything under his weight. 

“John-“ Sherlock tried to warn. He was pressed against the fence. “Stop it.” 

John suddenly spat blood and saliva up at Finn. Finn cursed and leaned back to wipe it out of his eye. Sherlock made a high pitched whistling noise that made the attacker look up sharply in the detectives direction. John seized his chance and used all of his strength left to throw Finn off of him. He yelled, throwing himself back at the larger man.

Sherlock saw his chance and sprinted out of the alley. He ran down the opposite street, running for what felt like a lifetime, and tore around the corner. 

He stopped dead at what he was met with. 

In the brief window of running around the block to the opposite side of the alley, Finn had gained the upper hand once more. He was holding John up by his shirt collar and beating the shit out of his face. The doctor looked exhausted. He wasn’t putting up any fight as the animal holding him socked him in the jaw, the cheekbone, the temple, the nose. John was making a noise each time a new hit was landed on top of him. It sounded kind of like a grunt, but as the ringing died down in Sherlock’s ears he could recognize it as a moan. John whimpered, his body being thrashed to either side as Finn brutalized him. The attacker’s knuckles were glazed red. John’s previously tan jumper stained an ugly mix of orange and red. 

Sherlock was in shock. How so much havoc and pain could be inflicted in the span of two minutes was horrifying. The gears in his head started to turn again as John was wrenched to the side. Finn hit him against the cheekbone and John fell fully on the stone under him. The monster picked him back up by his now loose shirt and hit again. 

Sherlock you absolute idiot he’s hitting your boyfriend. He’s hurting John. He’s killing John. John. 

Sherlock looked around frantically. There was an old, broken down pallet resting on the side of the brick wall. Sherlock grabbed onto it, adrenaline screaming through him as he ripped off one of the decrepit pieces of wood. He sprinted up to the two at the end of the alley. 

“Hey!” He shouted. Finn turned his head around. Sherlock swung so hard his shoulder almost gave out upon impact. There was a hard ‘THWACK’ as the wood plank connected with the side of Finn’s skull. The animal was unconscious before he even hit the ground. Sherlock panted, throwing the piece of wood on top of the man before kicking him the rest of the way off of John. 

John. Fuck, John.

He was barely conscious. His entire face was coated red. Sherlock dropped to his knees next to his partner and gingerly scooped up his mangled head. He placed John on his lap gently and undid his scarf. 

“John? John can you... can you hear me?” His voice was shaking. He pressed two fingers to the side of John’s neck and found a slow, thudding, pulse. Sherlock cursed shakily. 

John was trembling slightly. His hands were balled up into fists at his side. There was a dusting of red against his knuckles and Sherlock deduced with a brief moment of pride that John had managed to land a few hits on his attacker before being overcome. The doctors breath was ragged, his chest rising up and hitching a few times before falling. 

“John.” Sherlock repeated. He lifted the scarf carefully to John’s face and wiped a section of his forehead off. Blood and sweat were matting his hair and the detective did his best to push as much of it as he could away from his face. 

Both of John’s eyes were swollen. His left wasn’t completely shut, but it was close to it. The right one was, however. A portion of John’s skin had been torn on his collar bone and Sherlock almost felt sick when he made out the faintest hint of bone. 

“Fuck. Fuck.” He canted. Sherlock stumbled to grab his phone from his pocket. He sent an urgent text to both Lestrade and Mycroft. The later he had done without thinking. He didn’t care who came. They needed help. 

There was a noise coming from his lap. Sherlock dropped his phone once the messages were sent and gently brushed his hand against John’s forehead. John was stirring slightly. His body wriggled on the ground, both legs curling up as if they were trying to push against the stone. John’s lip was swollen on one side as well. When it trembled open to let a soft moan escape, blood trickled down the corner of his mouth. 

John’s right eye fluttered slightly. It opened as much as it could and John’s body heaved. Sherlock struggled to hold onto him as his partner convulsed. 

“Ff-nnh-“ John was slurring, moaning as he struggled to understand his surroundings. Sherlock tried to tilt John’s chin towards him, avoiding the already purple stain on his jaw. 

“John, love...” He tried to sound as reassuring as he could. “Love, please.” 

John swallowed thickly and looked up at Sherlock. God it would be a miracle if John could see anything right now. Sherlock was making small noises to John’s grunts and moans. The smaller man struggled to breath, his nose rasping in sharp and audible breaths. 

“Sh’lock?” John finally slurred. Sherlock nodded his head. God damn it he had started crying. Sherlock grabbed John’s limp hand and pressed it to his mouth almost desperately. 

“Hey, John.” His lips trembled. 

John’s eye fluttered slightly. “Wh...whes-“ Sherlock nodded his head slightly to the man laying unconscious next to them. John’s eye fluttered shut a moment, his head lolling backwards briefly and causing Sherlock to panic before it jerked back upwards. 

“Sher-“ 

“I’m here.”

“F’n kill...he-“ John’s tongue pressed against his lip. He struggled, his body starting to shake with effort. “He-He kill him.” John slurred out. Tears were falling down his face now. “Ah-ah- ow.” He whimpered as they pushed themselves down his blood covered cheeks.

“I- I know, John. God, i’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Sherlock bent forward and pressed his forehead against John’s. “It’s gonna be okay now.” He whispered.

“Could..” John was shaking his head. “Save ‘im. A-Ad-” Sherlock lifted his head slightly, looking at John and down at his lips. “I... I could’ve..” The doctor was trembling. Sherlock made the connection with more effort than he would have admitted. 

The trans man named Adam they had been meeting with during the course of the case. John had grown attached to him. He even admitted feeling responsible for him at one point after Adam told Sherlock and John his first encounter with Finn Thompson. Adam had been scared for his life and called Sherlock and John out here. Sherlock and John had immediately started the search for Finn on the streets, hoping to run into him before Finn caught up with Adam. Finn had gotten to him first. 

John’s lower lip was trembling. His hand in Sherlock’s flexed, digging into the other man’s hand. 

“No... No, John don’t do that to yourself.” Sherlock pressed his hand to John’s forehead. He tried in vain to wipe the rest of John’s hair that was sticking to his clammy skin. 

Distantly he could hear sirens. 

John’s eye was fluttering. “-erts.” He murmured. The ambulance came to a screeching stop at the end of the alley. The two men could hear familiar voices bossing each other around and pushing through. Lestrade ran down the alley and stopped dead a foot away from Sherlock and John. 

“Holy shit.” He breathed out, his lungs pulling inwards sharply. 

———

John had a broken cheekbone, a fractured rib, a concussion caused by blunt force trauma, severe bruising to his face both external and internal, a broken nose, a chipped tooth, and many stitches across his left cheek going up to his cheekbone. Remarkably, he was alive. 

They made him spend a horribly long time in the hospital. The only reason they had gotten out even a day earlier than planned was because of Mycroft pulling whatever strings he could for the pair. Sherlock had stayed with John the entire time. 

John had to wear bandages around his entire face for three days. Sherlock made sure to help (perhaps a little too much) and give John whatever he needed. When the bandages had come off Sherlock knew to hide his reaction. John still couldn’t see out of one eye, they had needed to stitch his upper lid and brow. He turned his head away from Sherlock at first. He could imagine what he looked like. Sherlock pressed a hand on John’s arm. John hesitantly turned his head back. 

In honesty, it was worse than Sherlock expected. John must have seen that flicker over Sherlock’s face. He turned his eyes down and made a pained expression. 

“That bad?” John had murmured. 

“I...” 

“You can be honest with me. I want you to...”

“Y-..” Sherlock squeezes John’s hand. “I didn’t expect it.” He whispered. 

——-

John was staring at himself in the mirror. In addition to the bruises that had still not healed all over his face, he had three new scars to join his gallery of a body. One that was a jagged line from brow to eyelid. One that curved from cheekbone to cheek, and one that curled over the corner of his jaw. 

They were back home in Bakerstreet. John had left his shared bed and was sitting in the bathroom trying to get acquainted with his new face. He didn’t know who the person was looking back at him. He blinked and breathed at the same time as John. He had the same eyes. The bags under those eyes were the same too. He even wore the same divots and faint acne scars as John. But the bruises and damage and cut lips were foreign. He didn’t want to know the person with three new scars littering his face.

John gasped and started when he felt two strong arms wrap around his waist. Sherlock held fast and pulled his back against his chest. John knew that person in the mirror. He closed his eyes and sighed.

“Some ugly mug is looking at me.” He mumbled. 

“That’s not nice.” Sherlock yawned on John’s hair. “I’ve just woken up.”

John pressed his hand on Sherlock’s. “Y’know I don’t mean you.” 

“John, you’ve been obsessing over your face for the past two weeks.” He pressed his nose into John’s hair. “You need to let yourself heal.” He tried to tug John backwards in an attempt to lead him back into the warmth of their bed. It took some coaxing and a promise of a back rub, but Sherlock slipped under the covers with John and pulled him back against his chest. 

Gentle touches and soft words were passed between the two for the rest of the night. Sherlock made sure John was thinking about nothing else but how much he loved him. How much he meant to him and how lucky he was to be in love with John. The other man had gone limp and breathless, trembling softly with emotion as Sherlock held him. 

When the morning came and they were pressed close once again, Sherlock whispered in John’s ear. 

“You know what?” 

“Hm?” John hummed lazily.

“Think we should give you a nickname for those scars.” Sherlock bit behind John’s ear, a spot that always made the shorter man squirm.

“Fuck off.” John snorted, wriggling away from him.

“Really. We could call you scar face.” Sherlock smiled against his neck. 

“Sherlock.” John groaned, knowing he was just teasing. 

“Could just stick to handsome.” Sherlock reasoned, catching John off guard. John turned, looking back at Sherlock for a moment before stealing a kiss. 

“That’s your name.” He grinned.

Sherlock groaned. “Really, John. Awful.” 

John laughed. “What? I thought it was smooth.”

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s chest and pulled him close. He buried his head in John’s neck and sighed into it. John sighed back, content and lazy. The thoughts of a broken face and a broken body seemed far away from last night. They were underneath right now. Right now nothing could hurt John. Right now was warm sheets and warm hands. Right now was Sherlock. Right now was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if I started spelling Finn with one n during this at all. I tried to catch all of them but shrugging emoji.


	3. Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little self indulgent for me personally. I guess these all are in a way but you know  
> Warnings for mention of self harm

John wasn’t exactly a perfect human being. If you asked him he’d tell you he thinks he’s alright. He might take himself out for coffee or something. But if you walked away and let him think he were alone his answer would be a resounding no. Of course he wasn’t. He had killed people. A lot of people. Criminals sure but there were others. People on the other side of the game of battleship. He didn’t know them. 

And what about his drinking? Or his patience? He had a lot of it, sure, but when it ran out... Boy, when it ran out. 

His temper really cemented the idea that he wasn’t a good person in his head. He grew up around people with short fuses and long, loud, explosions and had hated them. Why wouldn’t he feel the same about himself when he mimed their behavior? Sometimes when he got angry he’d catch a glimpse of himself in a reflection and see his father. He’d get so scared that whatever was causing the anger didn’t mean anything anymore. It reminded him to slow down. Take a breath. Think about it. 

Maybe that’s what made him an ok person. That he could reflect like this. He didn’t really believe it. His dad used to apologize after yelling, hadn’t he? But that didn’t make it stop. 

But John was getting better, wasn’t he? He was still seeing his therapist. He was slowly picking himself back up. Things were good. Sherlock and he had finally expressed their feelings for one another and opened a dam of loose emotion and white hot feeling that almost blinded the man. But he wasn’t blind yet. He was squinting in the light that was Sherlock and he felt warm. He was getting better.

Except when he wasn’t. 

Sometimes John forgot that he can’t keep himself locked in a jar. Sometimes he’d forget that if you lock something away that needed to be free it’d do anything to get out. John had pushed all of his anger down in his gut for the past week and a half. They were on a case John didn’t want to be on. He had told Sherlock; No domestics. 

But there he was working his jaw listening to a psycho tell Sherlock that he hadn’t seen the issue of leaving his four year old home alone. There he was telling Sherlock not to invite him no matter how interesting the case was. There he was coming anyway because Sherlock was putting himself in danger again. There he was putting the pieces together with Sherlock that the father had been a murderer all along and all they had to do was listen to the little four year old. There he was in the backyard watching a little girl play alone while a social worker texted on their cell phone. There he was chasing after the father in an alleyway.

There he was protecting Sherlock when a gun was pointed at him.

There he was facing the father as if a gun being pointed at him was a joke. Fire in his eyes and bile in his stomach he grabbed the man’s wrist and pushed him backwards until his back hit the wall. There was barely a struggle before John got him to drop the gun and Sherlock scooped to grab it, turning and texting on his phone to alert Lestrade. 

“Listen whatever that fucking kid told you was a lie, man.” The father was stammering. John wrenched him around and produced his cuffs from his jacket. He didn’t say anything. The lid to his jar was shaking and cracking, he had to bite down on his lip. 

“She gets confused, you know? She thinks every man she sees is her old man.” The father was trying to laugh and John pushed him down on the ground to sit and wait for the cops to show up. “You know kids. They’re stupid! She just wanted a little bit of attention.” 

John stiffened. A muscle in his jaw almost popped. Sherlock was pacing and texting on his phone not paying attention and muttering to himself. John looked at the idiot on the ground. 

“Kids pull that shit all the time.” The idiot was chuckling pathetically. “But then you pull one mean look and a swift and hard hand and it’s fine. Look Mr-“ 

“Shut up.” John ground out. His hands were clenched. 

“I’m telling you the brat lied!” The dad was struggling on his arse, trying to rock himself up to stand. “Why are you two believing a spoiled little-“

John kicked him in the face. His foot connected solidly right in the middle and the guy fell backwards like a ton of bricks. Sherlock flinched at the sudden cracking noise, turning to see John standing over a middle aged man moaning and rolling around with a bloody nose. His eyebrows rose. 

“Uh-“ he had opened his mouth for an explanation. It was like a trigger being pulled. John was suddenly animated again. The father had said something else, blaming this whole day on his daughter, and John had physically snapped. He balled his hand into a tighter fist than it already was in and in an instant slammed it down onto the writhing man’s chest. This stunned both men. The one being attacked gasped for air. As soon as he had opened his mouth John socked him in the jaw. 

“Shut up!” John screamed. “You haven’t stopped talking for one fucking second!” He had stood and kicked the man in the side when he cursed. John was flexing and unflexing his hands now. He paced around for three steps before turning and walking away. He didn’t even look at Sherlock. He was shaking his head and scrubbing his hands through his hair wildly. He took two steps before his left leg made an awkward movement. John limped the rest of the way down the alley. At the end of it he slammed his hand against a dumpster. The noise it made screamed into the night like an explosion. It barely phased him as he rounded the corner. 

Sherlock heard running. He ran after him. The detective would say he was giving John space to breath by not following him immediately. Truthfully he was frightened. He almost never saw John this angry. The worst part was he had been ignoring it for a week and a half. 

Sherlock caught up to John at the end of a dead end street. He hadn’t known it was a one way road. He wasn’t really thinking. Right now he was crouched in front of a brick wall, pounding his fist into it as if he could break through it. His eyes were screwed shut and he seemed not to hear anything. Not even Sherlock calling out to him. 

“Fuck-“ John spit out. Sherlock had pressed his hand to John’s knee gently. John looked up at him, registering who it was. He took a breath and looked around himself wildly. 

“You’re in the middle of London.” Sherlock supplied. “Behind a housing complex.” 

John blinked at him in confusion. His hand was still resting on the brick wall. He had been punching for so long and so hard his knuckles were bleeding and leaving a mark on the already red brick. Sherlock deduced something that frightened him and kept it to himself for once. He had deduced very early on in their friendship that John self harmed at one point in his life. He had never connected exactly how he had. Sherlock again wished he could keep his eyes from seeing. 

“You’re sitting right here with me.” Sherlock continued, adjusting how he was crouching. He sat back down on the ground fully. John unconsciously did the same. “You thought you were defending yourself.” Sherlock said a little softer than before. He wasn’t sure who he was saying this to. 

This seemed to get through to John. He gasped a little and put his bloody hand over his mouth. His body went from rigid to shaking all over. 

“Oh fuck... oh fuck I-“ John swallowed. “Is he okay did I— fuck what’d I do?” 

“You attacked someone that deserved it.” Sherlock stated calmly. 

John was shaking his head now. “No, no, fuck.” He stood and took a step with his left leg that crumpled under him immediately. He shouted in frustration and slammed his open palm against the pavement underneath him. “Fuck!” He yelled. 

“John-“ 

“It doesn’t matter who I attacked!” John was yelling. His face was starting to flame up in a way Sherlock was familiar with. It was when John was forcing himself not to cry. The doctor made another frustrated noise and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was on his knees. John crumpled up in front of himself and hooked his arm around his middle. 

“John...” Sherlock felt helpless. He swallowed and reached out a hand again before retracting it. Sherlock thought for a long moment before he undid his scarf. Sherlock carefully draped it on the back of John’s neck. As soon as it landed John snatched it with his hand and balled it into a fist. He looked like he was going to yank it off before the fabric rubbed softly between his finger tips. 

John didn’t move for a long time after that. Sherlock didn’t disturb him. He saw a tiny bit of movement from the scarf and followed it down to find John gently pressing the fabric over with his thumb. His eyes were closed and he was breathing through his nose. 

What felt like a thousand years ended with John quietly slumping fully on the ground. His muscles had had enough of being balled up for so long that they had given up on him. John grunted slightly upon impact. Sherlock touched his shoulder softly and John didn’t react. Sherlock hooked his hands under John’s armpits and lifted him gently off the ground. He pulled him against his chest and didn’t say anything as he cupped his nape. John breathed in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and sighed. He slumped forward, pressing his face there and reaching until he found purchase against Sherlock. Sherlock held him back. 

“Are you alright to stand?” Sherlock offered. “I’d like to go home and make us some tea.” He whispered into John’s hair. 

John sniffed and regained some of himself. They could hear sirens and the voices of a familiar and frustrated detective inspector. 

“You make shite tea.” John mumbled. 

“That’s offensive.” Sherlock replied, helping John to a standing position.

“You always put too much milk in mine.” John rubbed his face with Sherlock’s scarf. Sherlock ran his hand down John’s arm and hooked his own around him. They started walking.

“How do you always make mine perfectly then?” Sherlock snaked his hand back down and was now gently holding John’s bloodied hand. He turned it over softly with his gloved fingers and pressed a kiss to his palm wordlessly. John blinked up at him, eyes welling with emotions he could not explain.

“Practice I suppose.” He answered finally, his breath airy and quiet.

“See,” Sherlock nodded, “I just need practice.” 

John chuckled a little. “You gonna be making tea regularly now?” His voice was sore and wobbly.

“Let’s not get carried away.” Sherlock said seriously. He grinned a little when John looked at him. They called a cab. Their hands were interlocked and John had not moved an inch away from Sherlock’s side. On the car ride home John felt exhaustion creeping over him. Sherlock wordlessly bumped the mans shoulder. John was asleep on him soon after. 

——

So why’d I find the dad passed out on the side walk where you told me to find you? GL

He was bad mouthing Scotland Yard. SH

Very funny. GL

No, really though. GL


	4. John’s Scottish and So Is His Dad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So i’ve been working on this one for quite a bit. I kept putting it off because one it’s a selfish fic tbh and two i didn’t know if it was interesting enough to post. I decided i’d finish it tho because well... I like it. Hope you do too.

“What do you mean you’re Scottish?”

“My middle name is Hamish, Sherlock. I’ve watched you deduce someone's entire family lineage because of the way they sneezed and you can’t connect the name Hamish back to Scotland?” John was washing the dishes. His jaw was working as he spoke and when he finished he put a hand on the edge of the sink and place the other on his hip dramatically.

The detective sitting at the kitchen table was staring at him. He had a far away look on his face. Sherlock was in fact thinking if a lot of things at the moment. 

“It wasn’t how they sneezed it was the handkerchief that was specific to-“ he waved his hand in front of his face as if to clear the distraction from his main subject. “-what does you being Scottish have to do with your stubborn refusal to go there for a case?” 

John sighed loudly and shook his head. He turned back to their dishes. Their dishes, mind you. Not just John’s. Fact it was mostly Sherlock’s... 

“It has a lot to do with my refusal.” John was cleaning out a beaker. He raised it above his shoulder so Sherlock could see it. “What was in this? Does it need to be disinfected a certain way?” 

“It’s only for three days, John. Two if we got a jump on the thing.” Sherlock stood and took the beaker. “Mm... Might just toss this one.” John met his eyes for a moment and raised his eyebrows. Sherlock shook his head and put it back down on the counter. The taller man breezed past John. He was squinting at him all the while and desperately searching for his face as the doctor cleaned. 

Sherlock placed himself on top of the counter next to John. The later shook his head. 

“I really just want you to leave it, alright?” John looked up. Sherlock looked back at him. Since their relationship started he had made a concerted effort to work on a few things. One of them was listening to John. 

Sherlock was silent a long while, fiddling with a dirty mug that John ended up taking from him and replacing it once it was clean. The silence seemed to comfort John a bit. Perhaps he thought he won. Sherlock regarded his partner: The doctor had come home about an hour ago. It was freezing outside but John had walked his commute home because he was an idiot that thought fresh air was good for him. He entered a sweaty mess and was currently in just his tank top and pajama pants. His hair was still a bit wet from the shower and Sherlock made a note of the colors his hair was at each stage of drying.

“Say something in Gaelic.” Sherlock said, a bit childishly. John snorted a little and rubbed his nose with the back of a soapy hand.

“Noo.” John responded. His voice had shifted down an octave. The ‘o’ trailed off into a lovely spiral sound. Even that simple word was foreign to what Sherlock knew of John Watson. His eyebrows had shot up and stayed there until John glanced up at him. 

“What-“

Sherlock kissed him. John made a startled noise and had to hold onto the sink for balance. Sherlock pecked him on the lips as soon as that kiss was over. John chuckled, his cheeks were dusted a bit at the surprise.

“What was that for, you loony?” he laughed.

“You are so endlessly fascinating, John Watson. You are a mystery. A beautiful, remarkable, mystery.”

John’s cheeks were more than dusted after that. He blinked and turned his head away a bit. “Christ, Sherlock,” he murmured. “You know, when you give a compliment-“

“-I mean it.” Sherlock finished for him. John was looking at Sherlock’s lips. They were much closer now and Sherlock was looking down from just that bit higher with him being on the counter.

“Then again, I dunno if it’s a good thing or not to be a mystery.” John said quietly, suddenly feeling like he needed to whisper. 

“You are constantly proving to me how remarkable you are.” Sherlock smiled very faintly. “I get to learn so much about you.” The detective kissed the doctor again. It was slow and paced and intimate. John’s eyelashes fluttered. 

“Fuck.” John breathed.

Sherlock and John were working together on a lot of things in their relationship. They were pretty broken people if you looked at all of the pieces of themselves strewn across the floor (that was in this case their bodies). They couldn’t fix each other. But they could be part of the team that helped clean up the mess. Someones got to pick up these pieces around here. 

One item on the long list of things to work on was that Sherlock told himself to listen to John more. John had told him to just leave it, alright?

Sherlock still wasn’t very good at listening.

He convinced John to go to Scotland. Well, not really convinced. He had bribed John over a very nice dinner where a lot of wine was drunk. They bickered a bit on the train. Sherlock had clearly taken advantage of how John gets when he’s had too much wine. 

He’s all “Yeah, yeah, of course babe” and “Whatever you want love” and “Gosh you’re brilliant. I ever tell you that?” when he’s wine drunk so of course he said he’d come. Sherlock played innocent. It wasn’t his fault they had bought two bottles of John’s favorite. 

Whatever, John thought, slumping back into his seat and looking out the window moodily. A part of him missed the Highlands, anyways. Maybe a bit of sea air would do him good. 

“Where we goin again?” John said to the window.

Sherlock was texting and looking down. “Mòrag Harbor. About a mile away from-“

“Know where it is.” John cut in.

Sherlock looked up and squinted at him a moment. He really was cross with him. “How do you say cross in Gaelic?” He asked

John looked over at him. Sherlock was grinning a little. Enough John could see at least.

“Crosta.” John replied. “Tha John crosta.” 

There were a few reasons he had left Scotland. One was to make his own life. Another was he was young and wanted to follow his sister. Another was the anxiety that mounted in his chest whenever he heard the name Hamish being exclaimed from across the room in a thick tongue that rolled the last syllable like the ships out in the harbor. But that, John supposed, was for another reason itself.

They were sitting in a cute little cafe that looked out to Mòrag Harbor. That’s how a group of little girls had described it to John and Sherlock when they asked where it was, so that was how they were to describe it from now on. John ran his finger on the edge of his cup of tea. He was watching the milk inside swirl and was caught up in his own thoughts. Distractingly so, according to Sherlock. 

“Stop that.” Sherlock said as he watched a sailboat pass. 

“You ever gonna let me think in peace?”

“Not if you scowling at your tea is what you consider peace.”

“...’m not scowling.” John pushed his plate away a bit and looked out to the ocean. “What’s our bloke look like anyway?” 

“Mm, yes.” Sherlock nodded. He turned his head back to look at the town. People were milling about doing their own business or chatting with neighbors, friends and acquaintances. It was all so picturesque. It was off putting, really. Too much like a post card. The town had just gone through two cases of murder, however. Perhaps they were trying to cling to whatever normalcy their community had. There were only about five hundred people that lived on the harbor. The detective watched each of them. He could tell they were weary. No one had committed a crime here for at least ten years. It was a decent community and a quiet part of the country. Nothing was perfect though. 

John cleared his throat. Sherlock nodded again and waved his hand. It was his turn to think for a moment.

“Relatively average height man,” Sherlock started.”

“Promising start,” John grunted, writing in the notebook he kept in his jacket. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Only gets better,” the detective continued, “average build. White. Late sixties to seventies. The only witness to the first murder was killed two days after he reported the crime.”

“But he didn’t know it was a crime yet, right?” John interjected.

“Correct. The first murder was a suspect suicide. Witness one found him and called police. Witness one winds up dead the same way two days later.” 

“Both slit their throat?” 

“Yes. An unusual way to commit suicide, I agree.” 

John blinked. He hadn’t said anything. 

“But all the evidence points to the victims committing the act.”

“Forced?” John leaned back. A waitress came over and took away Sherlock’s tea cup. He nodded at her and John smiled politely. Sherlock was about to continue but John made him wait until she was out of ear shot. 

“It’s possible.” Sherlock said finally. “I suspect yes, they were made to do it. However I also think that’s a bit obvious.”

“Is it?” 

“Yes John, it’s at least the second most obvious.”

“The first being?”

“He planted evidence after killing them himself.” Sherlock leant back with steepled fingers. “The thing that interests me the most is these two victims were seemingly random. It doesn’t make sense why-“

“Oi Donna! D’ya mind if I steal this chair away from ya for a ‘mo.” A commanding voice suddenly erupted in the room. Sherlock huffed and John shook his head, smiling a little and turning towards the source. The man shouting had an old sounding voice. Like he had just finished a large cigar and stumbled in out of thin air. 

“Aye Hamish. Make sure ye bring it back this-“

“Aye! Aye! Will do. Will do.” The man, apparently Hamish, waved her off and turned around with the chair in tow. 

Sherlock was about to go back to speaking before John stood up. His hands were in tight fists. 

“I’m leaving.” He stated.

“What-“

“I said I’m leaving.” He grabbed his coat and dropped a few pounds on the table. He turned around and went to go out the way the old man had before he stopped, made a sharp turn, and left through the exit on the other side of the cafe. 

Sherlock sat in silence. His eyebrows were raised and his mouth was still slightly open as if he were to finish his sentence. He closed it. Hamish. Sherlock scooted his chair back and leaned on it until he could see out the window that looked towards the terrace.

The loud man was sitting with a group of four other men. They seemed to be arguing with one another. They were all talking at once except for Hamish. He sat and watched them bicker with each other with a serious look on his face. He took a sip from an old looking thermos. When he put it back down he said something and all four arguing men turned to look at him. 

Hamish had a stocky build. His features were sunken into his face and right now even Sherlock thought he was scary. All the men listened as Hamish spoke. Some looked down at their feet. Others away from the scene itself. When he was done talking he nodded his head. The rest of the blokes murmured something in reply or nodded back. They were silent after. 

The older man had a gray and white mustache. His face was very square, the buzz cut only amplifying this look. He brought his old thermos to his mustache and stood up. After taking a long sip he started walking towards the dock that lay on the other side of the cafe. Sherlock watched him, still leaning back against his chair. The old man paused and pulled at his jacket sleeve to look at his watch. He cursed under his breath and shifted his mug in his hand. Sherlock squinted a bit and leaned back some more to stare at a piece of tape stuck onto the side of the thermos. Hamish readjusted his sleeve and looked like he was about to keep walking before he caught the eye of the detective. 

Cobalt blue eyes stared at Sherlock for a few moments. Sherlock could feel his throat closing. He’s seen those eyes before. Hamish didn’t seem to see anything other than a stranger staring at him funny. He sniffed, the corner of his mustache moving upwards, and turned to leave. His hold on the thermos had moved and Sherlock could see what was written on the piece of tape now:

Hamish Watson.

Sherlock toppled backwards in his chair and fell to the floor with a loud bang. 

He found John sitting on a bench bouncing his left leg. He was leaning forwards, his arms resting on his legs and hands clasped together as John stared unblinking at the water laid out before him. John had sat himself on the edge of the coast away from the small town. Sherlock watched the left side of his partner bounce up and down as his leg ran. 

Ache acting up. Bouncing to try and drive away the feeling. Thinking too hard. As usual.

“Know you’re there,” John said, startling Sherlock out of his observations. Sherlock cleared his throat. 

“Yes, well...Was wondering where you went.” He sat down next to John. 

“Well, here I am.” John continued to bounce his knee.

It was silent. Sherlock shifted around on the bench. The breeze ran across their faces and Sherlock watched as it brushed away John’s hair. He rarely ever saw John like this: He was anxious and jittery. His leg twitched up and down rapidly as if he were ready to take off into a sprint if anyone said anything wrong or if all hell broke loose. But it was a calm day. The sea barely spoke. There weren’t gulls yelling and the fishermen were sitting lazily in their boats. Nothing to bite. Sherlock knew different though. It was about to be a horrible day for his partner and it had taken him this long to figure it out. God he could be so stupid. He really should listen to John more. Sherlock rubbed his hands together and turned swiftly and fully towards John. He opened his mouth to speak. 

“I’m leaving tonight.” John said first. He looked down at the ground. All of the wind left Sherlock in one great huff. “I just wanted to say that.” John continued, “Before you say whatever you’re gonna say.” 

Sherlock pushed his tongue to the side of his mouth. “Well you’re probably…” He cleared his throat. John looked up at him confused. “You’re probably not going to enjoy what I was going to say then.” Sherlock clicked his tongue slightly. “I uhm…”

John sat up a bit. “Sherlock, you’re freaking me out.” 

“No, I know.” Sherlock was rubbing his forehead a little. “I’m just... realizing now that I’m an arse.” He barely spoke.

John laughed, but it was nervous. 

“Jesus, you must have fucked up.” He reached for Sherlock’s hand. Not really understanding the situation. Sherlock shook his head. 

“Listen John I-”

“Christ Sherlock, I haven’t seen you this nervous since-”

“-John Watson! I cannae believe ma eyes.” 

It was the same voice from earlier. The one John hadn’t recognized at first. Sherlock watched as John’s face turned very serious. 

“Now... I know you didn’t…” he said darkly to Sherlock. His voice was deep and a different tone than anything Sherlock had heard out of him before.

Hamish Watson came from around the other side of his son and stood in front of both the men on the bench. John didn’t look up. His eyes were staring with a gaze so fierce at Sherlock the detective could practically feel the burn marks forming on his own eyes. 

“What has it been? Ten years, Johnny?” The older man said, laughed and scratching at the stubble growing around his neck. 

John turned his head and looked at his father. “Twenty five,” came his reply. 

“Huh.” Hamish shook his head, his tongue pressing to the side of his face as his hand lowered and reached out towards John. 

John stared at it as if it were a foreign expression to him. He looked at the hand and back up at who it belonged to. 

“Oh,” Hamish huffed, cocking his hand to the side and lowering it, “come now, captain. It’s been a long time. I know-”

“What are you doing here, general?” John said overtop him. 

Sherlock felt like he should leave. His eyes were wide and he was staring anywhere but at the two other men. He went to slink away from the extremely uncomfortable atmosphere before John grabbed him by the sleeve and held him with white knuckles as he stared up at his father. Sherlock heard the message loud and clear. He settled back down into his seat but John still did not let go. 

“I live here now, son.” The general replied. Christ, Sherlock thought Mycroft and him were bad. He’d take bickering over this competition to see who could be the most passive aggressive.“Didn’t Harry tell you?”

“Harry didn’t tell me when she got a divorce.” John let go of Sherlock. “So of course not.” He added quietly.

“Did she? I didn’t think she’d gone and married her mate in the first place.” Hamish sniffed. John brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose for a moment. 

“Anyways, I’m retired now. I live here. ‘S quiet and I can be of some use here. I help out at the docks when they need me.” He was rambling a little and looking around himself and out to the sea. 

“Isn’t that charitable of you.” John murmured more to himself. Sherlock was screaming inside his head. He knew better than to say anything. He was watching the both of them intently now. If he couldn’t escape he might as well try and learn something from this. 

“At lease it was quiet.” Hamish sighed a deep breath in through his nose as he closed his eyes to the morning air. “I suppose that’s why you’re here isn’t it?” His eyes finally graced Sherlock with their presence. 

“How would you know that?” John said before Sherlock. 

“Because I read.” Hamish rolled his eyes. “You don’t think I'd let a news article all about my son and his…” he looked at Sherlock a moment, “friend go unnoticed eh? Knew you’d always be a writer.” He tried to wink at John but must have thought better of it. 

“He’s my boyfriend, Da.” John hadn’t missed a beat. “My partner.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows a little. John had his own list of things to work on in their relationship. One of them was not hiding each other. It was in John’s instinct to hide himself. He had been hiding his bisexuality from himself for his whole life. Sherlock wondered faintly if he were looking right at the source of all that hiding. 

Hamish made a noise in the back of his throat. “That what you’re calling it?”

John stood up. The general didn’t react. 

“Why not call him lassie while you’re at it?” Hamish smiled and took a sip from his thermos. Sherlock immediately looked at John. John who was shaking holding himself back from throttling the old man in front of him. When the general was finished with his drink John grabbed his thermos, reeled back, and chucked it into the ocean. 

“John-” Sherlock tried to warn gently. He sat up a bit straighter. 

“-Ye better be ready tae swim efter ‘at, loon,” Hamish said angrily.

“Dorn’t call me a boy, Hamish.” John said through grit teeth. “Aam nae a feckin bairn anymair.”

Sherlock knew he should be focusing right now but John slipping back into his accent when angry was enthralling him. He made a note in his head to bring it up later. Maybe after he stopped him from committing patricide.

“'at sae? aw ah see is a bairn in front ay me.” Hamish stepped up to John. He had a good half inch on his son. For the first time Sherlock saw John’s confidence falter. He didn’t let it flag for long. The army doctor didn’t move an inch. “The same bairn ‘at left twenty five years ago,” Hamish spat on the ground. 

“Yeah? an' aw ah see is th' sam hateful man ah left behin,” John shook his head. He turned around. Sherlock could almost hear the screeching noise it emitted to wrench himself from the situation.”Main en,” John said, apparently to Sherlock, “we’re leavin.” 

They got about two steps away from the scene. 

“No wonder yer mom left us,” Hamish called bitterly after his son. “We’re both hateful bastards.” 

John was suddenly breathing hard. He stopped walking next to Sherlock and turned to face his father that had turned himself towards the sea. John’s chest rose and fell sharply and he was making a harsh noise with his nose every time he breathed inward. 

“John,” Sherlock said gently. “Come on. It’s not worth it… Truly.” 

John wasn’t listening to the gentle voice by his ear. He could barely hear anything past the rushing of blood in his ears. He saw red. He saw a slammed car door and a trail of smoke from an old engine. He saw a woman with blond hair driving away in the backseat of a cab. He saw a bitter man sitting on the edge of his bed. 

It happened before he even really knew it.

John had seized the lapels of his old man’s jacket and threw him onto the rocks in front of him. The rocks were acting as a shore to the sea. It was more like a cliff dive straight down into the bay. Especially for an older man. John was ready to throttle him to death before Hamish started laughing. It was a wheezing sort of laugh, probably from the fall, that spat out of him cruelly. John’s rage turned into confusion. 

“See! You are just like yer Da!” Hamish smiled at his son. 

John’s face fell. He let go of Hamish instantly and let him lay limp on the rocks. John looked shocked, the anger had fell out of his bones so suddenly it left him numb and lifeless. He could see himself without needing a reflection. The anger boiling out of him, bent over someone weaker than him ready to strike. John was horrified with himself. He leaned back. 

And Hamish punched him in the face. 

When it was all over Sherlock decided he’d come home with John too. It had already been a much more eventful trip than planned, and they were en route to catch a murderer. He told Lestrade he was off the case. He did not say why. 

John was laying in their hotel bed. He wasn’t sleeping. His eyes were closed but Sherlock suspected he was just resting as his thoughts stormed in between his eyes. John had a dark red mark across the bridge of his nose. It spread like a watercolor of purple under his eyes and just slightly above them. The old man may not have looked like a threat, but act like one he did. 

“John?” Sherlock said carefully. He was sitting up next to John in bed pretending like he was on his computer.

“Mm?” John hummed at the ceiling. 

“Is it okay if I touch you?” 

John cracked an eye open and peered up at Sherlock. He closed it. John thought for a few moments.  
“Nae-” John cleared his throat, “Not moving but… yeah.” 

Sherlock closed his laptop. He placed it on the arm chair across from their bed and scooted back under the covers. He kept himself upright and rested his back on the headboard. Sherlock’s leg was pressed close to John’s body. He looked down at John, who’s eyes were closed and brows pressed slightly together, and pressed the side of his thumb against John’s forehead. John’s eyebrows pushed together even more and Sherlock huffed softly. He could feel John try and relax under him. 

Sherlock rubbed his thumb gently up the center of John’s forehead. He was just barely touching John’s skin. He didn’t want to aggravate John’s bruises anymore. Sherlock’s thumb ghosted up and down and across John’s forehead before trailing down to his cheek. Still only rubbing with the side of his thumb, Sherlock gently stroked John’s cheekbone and down his left cheek. He repeated the action on the right side before gently pressing under John’s eyes. John winced at first, but soon his face had slackened and relaxed. He usually wore a resting scowl even when he was trying to relax. Sherlock often commented on this face and John would grumble that he didn’t have a mirror on him all the time. 

Now he looked like he was sleeping. Better than sleeping, really. His face was relaxed and calm. If it weren’t for the red and purple marks around his nose and eyes he might even look happy. 

Sherlock stopped and just looked at John for a while. His thumb rested at the corner of his jaw where the rest of his fingers curled gentle to hold onto him there. John blinked his eyes open lazily and looked up at Sherlock. They were quiet for a while.

“It’s okay.” John whispered. 

Sherlock leaned down awkwardly and pressed his forehead against John’s. 

“I hadn’t even considered what seeing him might do to affect you,” Sherlock said against John’s skin. “I just wanted to know. I needed more data about you. More information.” He sighed and lifted his head slightly. John lifted his eyebrows and stayed silent. He knew when to give Sherlock time to think. 

Sherlock shook his head slightly. “There was something new about you that I didn’t know and I wanted to take all of it before even asking you.” 

John swallowed and pursed his lips. His hand came up and covered where Sherlock was holding his jaw still. 

“Some things are better left alone.” He murmured. 

“You know how insane that makes me.” Sherlock practically moaned. 

John rolled his eyes a little. “You can deduce, can’t you? I’m sure you observed quite a lot this afternoon.” 

Sherlock hummed. He had actually, yes. The thought made him hold onto John just a bit tighter. He wrestled with himself.

“John.”

“Mm?” The doctor's eyes had closed again. There was a dull but thudding pain beating against the bruises on his face. 

“I’m… I'm sorry. I should’ve… listened to you.” Sherlock was stumbling over himself and he knew it. He looked down at John and found him grinning. “What?” 

“Nothing. It’s just… the only time I can get you to apologize is when something extreme happens.” John sat himself up on his elbows. 

Sherlock sighed and pressed his head in the crook of John’s neck dramatically. John pressed a hand to Sherlock hair and carded his fingers through it gently. 

“D’you wanna be a love?” 

Sherlock nodded his head on John’s neck.

“Get me some water and a pain killer?” 

Sherlock kissed John’s collarbone and nodded again. He slipped out of bed and returned to it to find John sitting up fully and rubbing a hand through his hair. He was looking down at his phone but closing his eyes sharply. Sherlock crawled onto the bed and John opened them again. He grabbed the glass and pill and made a noise in his throat.

“Ta.” The noise came out.

Sherlock sat looking at John. He looked endearing with his hair all messed up like it was now. He liked when John’s hair was messy because it rarely ever was. Old habits die hard Sherlock guessed. Maybe he could get John to mess it up more. And grow out his beard… 

“Can I say something?” Sherlock said as John brought the glass to his lips. John grunted his affirmation and took a sip. Sherlock watched his throat swallow before he spoke. “Your accent is sexy.”

John choked on his next sip. He sputtered and hacked until he was laughing. He shoved Sherlock backwards playfully and leaned to set down the glass. 

“Don’t make fun of me.” He said, stretching to reach the little coaster on the dresser next to them. 

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m not.” 

John looked back at Sherlock. “You’re joking.” 

“John, now you’re making fun of me.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m serious. It’s the way you were speaking. You were furious but confident. You knew you were in the right and the way you used to speak so long ago came back instantly.” Sherlock nodded. “But yeah, it was sexy.” 

John was on top of Sherlock instantly. He was kissing at his cheeks and down his neck while his partner practically squirmed and giggled under him. When John was satisfied he brought his face up and pressed his nose against Sherlock’s. 

“If ye hink that’s sexy. Wait til ah hae mah way wi' ye tonecht.” His voice was low and so extremely close to Sherlock that it made the detective shiver. 

“I.. I was thinking…” Sherlock was blushing, something he hated but always did so easily. 

“Ye laddie?” John was grinning. 

“I was thinking I could take care of you tonight.” 

John’s confident persona faltered. He turned his wicked grin into a soft smile and kissed Sherlock gently. He practically melted into the man under him as they kissed. It was all soft touches and warm bodies as Sherlock settled John backwards into an opposite position than before. He pressed himself down over John and kissed right below his ear. John shivered a little.

“Feel free to keep the accent if you want.” Sherlock whispered in his ear. John chuckled a little. 

“Awright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mòrag Harbor is a fictional place I made up. 
> 
> Also sorry if theres any Scottish readers and i like butchered the way you spoke or something i tried to keep it as like true as i could i guess


	5. Kidnapped (part one of two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the rare two parter stories i’m gonna be posting here. I just wanted to spend some time with the after care for this one. So i’ll see you at the end of part two for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw this gets a bit gruesome at times so if ur sensitive to gore i’d be mindful of that.

“You ‘it ‘em too hard, Steve.” 

“He’s bleedin all over the fuckin floor, mate, you gotta do sometin about it.”

“Had to go and lose ya fuckin tempa again. The fuck we gonna do when that Holmes bloke sees how bad you messed ‘im up?”

“Will you two shut the fuck up? Jesus. I’m trying to think... Bobby go get your sewing kit.”

“What for?” 

“You sew don’t ya?” 

“Yea sure I do, but I aint gonna sew no man back up!” 

“Would you rather him die and have us get fuck all out of this?” 

“Well fuck, Steve, it aint Bobby’s fault you beat the shit out of the guy with all yer rings on.” 

“I said shut up, Frank! Bobby! Stitch this fucker up or you’ll both end up lookin like him. You hear me?”

“Aye...”

“Yea Steve we hear ya...”

——

John heard him from where he was face down on an unfamiliar tiled floor. It was an old bathroom in a shitty house. 

At least... he thought it was. Or maybe it was a basement room? Had they taken him into or out of the bathroom? Where was he again?

Oh right: He was bleeding out onto a tile in a bathroom/regular room. He had gotten cheeky with the guy in charge of his kidnapping and pushed one too many buttons. Turned out for lucky old John the guy had a temper. 

And a lot of expensive, sharp, rings. 

He hit John a few times and John had spat in his eye and told him to fuck himself. John was hit some more and the doctor had started laughing and calling him pathetic. 

He was drunk really. The adrenaline of being kidnapped and tied up with the three stooges of the crime world had gone to his head and he couldn’t shut himself up. He was angry too, though. Maybe he even wanted a beating for being stupid enough to be caught off guard in a scary alley.

The biggest and scariest stooge had wailed on John so hard the doctor forgot his name. He felt a sharp rock dig into his cheekbone. He felt his body being jerked this way and that as a new part of his face was ripped open by a silver band and a 10k diamond studded knuckle. 

He hit the floor hard. He couldn’t remember much except the previous conversation and the sensation of hands around his shoulders and in his hair. 

The two other stooges, Bobby and Frank, propped John up against the wall. Frank tugged on John’s hair until his neck craned back far enough for his head to stay up on its own. 

“Fuck,” Frank breathed, “we’re never gonna get paid now. Look at this idiots face. It’s fucking fallin off.” 

John’s head lolled and his eyes tried to open. He could only see a blurry outline of the two kneeling in front of him. 

“Stop it, Frank.” Bobby was rummaging around in a tool box on the ground next to him. “I’m gonna fix it. I’m gonna fix it.”

John fell into blackness a few moments after. 

——

He came back to a tugging sensation. John’s eyes once again tried to flutter open. Something was blocking them. He moved to rub whatever it was away but remembered faintly that his hands were tied behind his back. He settled on blinking until whatever it was was gone. 

When he could see a tiny bit better (his reality still a little blurry with red around the corners of his vision) he was met with Bobby’s sweaty, concentrating face. 

John grunted and flinched backwards. 

“Stay still, Mr. Watson,” Bobby said quietly. His breath smelled like tobacco and chewing gum. A smell John was familiar with. “You don’t wanna move while I’m doin this.”

John slowly became aware of a burning sensation right where Bobby was focusing his attention. The more the tugging, burning, feeling went on the more John became aware of his situation.

Bobby was cutting some string every once and a while. When he pulled back John caught sight of a bloody needle between two bare fingers. 

John made another noise in the back of his throat. 

They were stitching his face back up with a fucking sewing kit. 

“M... wait. Wait,” John rasped. It was hard to speak. His tongue felt heavy as panic and pain poured through him like some sort of thick honey. “...’m a- a-am a doctor.” John slurred. “Let me. Please.”

Bobby leaned back and looked at John. His head turned quickly.

“Jesus, Frank, we forgot he was a doctor!” Stooge number three shouted. Frank was sitting on the lip of a decrepit looking bathtub inspecting his fingernails. He shrugged in reply. 

“We aint lettin him loose. Just finish sewin those gashes.” Frank chewed on a fingernail. 

John’s eyes met Bobby’s. John couldn’t really see out of his left eye but they met the other man’s all the same. Bobby looked terrified. He was still such a young, stupid, kid. 

“L-listen I...” John swallowed. His saliva tasted like copper. “It’ll get infected an... and they’ll just tear if you don’t-“

“Hey, shut up!“ the first stooge, Steve, had re-entered the bathroom. “Bobby you finish stitchin him up. If he aint out when your done you knock him out.”

Bobby’s hands were shaking. John stared at him, his vision wavering, and pleaded silently. The kid took a deep breath and shook his head. 

“Sorry, Dr. Watson.” Bobby looked down and grabbed a different needle. “S your fault, really...” he threaded the string through the loop, “If you had just kept your mouth shut.” He trailed off after knotting the first end of the string. 

Bobby pushed his fingers into John’s hair and shoved him back straight and still against the wall. John blacked out when the needle was pushed through his cheek.

——

“Oh good it looks like he’s wakin up. That’ll be perfect for the photo.” John could just barely hear one of the stooges say. He didn’t know which it was. It sounded like Steve. Maybe. Was that even his name? 

He felt his head being moved. There was a body next to him brushing against his side. Wait, where was he? 

John’s eyes fluttered open. They had moved him from his last residence. Now he was kneeling on the ground with his arms up. He could feel the bonds around his wrists and the fact that he was still in the bathroom told him they had tied him up against a towel rack. He was hanging there limp with his wrists over the metal rack. John thought of a television show he’d watched where some guy was trapped by a witch and chained to a wall with iron shackles. Zip ties weren’t exactly iron and these three weren’t witches, but John felt the same. 

He blinked slowly and groggily at the tile below him. His clothes were filthy and covered in dried blood. For some reason John couldn’t get himself to lift his head. It felt heavy and rigid. Before he could even get a chance to try someone put their hand in his hair and yanked him upwards.

There was a terrible popping noise with the sharp movement.

“Careful!” Bobby shouted. 

John moaned, his eyes squeezing shut as pain shot up his cheek and along his jaw. Something had broken off of John. It felt like it was splitting his face apart right under his left eye. 

“Those stitches are fragile, Frank. They gotta hold until we’re finished with all this.” Bobby was on one knee. He picked up something rigid and dark red off the ground. He made a small gagging noise. “Oh fuck that’s disgusting.” He complained. 

Frank, still holding John’s head back, groaned. 

“Oh, shut up. Just take your pictures, Steve. He looks nice and pretty for ya.” Frank demonstrated this by lifting John’s head by his hair some more. John hissed and struggled a little. 

Steve came over and crouched down in front of them. He pushed Bobby out of the way and the young kid peered over the big guys shoulder as Steve produced a cell phone and turned it sideways. They looked like parents taking a school picture. 

“Yeah, beautiful.” Steve chuckled. He snapped the pictures. The dickhead had the ringer on and John heard just how many were being taken. He tried to look defiant. No doubt these were being sent to Sherlock or someone at the yard that would end up showing Sherlock. His heart ached a bit at the thought. He wondered how bad it was…

“Turn em to the side.” Steve said, looking at his phone. 

Frank pushed at the side of John’s head and made him stay there. He tilted John’s chin up a bit as if he were a prize he had won. 

“Fuck, Bobby. You sure made gruesome work of that eye didn’t you?” 

“He’s alive aint he? You’re the one that fucked him up.” Bobby was stroking underneath his eye absently.

John blinked and made a slight noise. He needed to know what he looked like. The doctor went to speak, to even just move his lips, and found they weren’t listening to him. They felt numb and heavy too. It was strange. It felt like his lip was being pulled up by an invisible hook. 

His heavy tongue wouldn’t work for him either. God, none of his face was answering him. He couldn’t even bring his eyebrows together to express his inner concern.

He must have looked it though because Steve was laughing at him. He pressed on his phone again and stood up. Steve was taking a video.

“See the beautiful thing is,” he reached out and cupped John’s jaw. John tried to shake him away but couldn’t pull far enough.

“He don’t even know what he looks like.” Steve continued, smiling behind the camera as he tilted John’s head this way and that. It felt like John was made of something terribly fragile. Every drag of the head made his nerves scream at him. Please god don’t move, they yelled. 

“It’s alright though,” Steve dropped John’s head and the doctor slumped back downward. “He’ll see soon enough.”

He tapped on the phone again and chuckled to himself. Frank rolled his eyes and Bobby sat himself on the lip of the bathtub. He looked anxious and his eyes were looking anywhere but at John. 

John heard the sound of a few texts being sent. Distantly he thought how stupid these three were. Sherlock would track the phone’s location in an instant. 

With his face throbbing and his body trembling against his bonds, John looked down at the bloody tile below him. He wasn’t sure he wanted Sherlock to come. Something was eating away at John’s insides. What the fuck did he look like?

John’s head started to swim as pain slowly returned to his senses. His whole face started to throb. It was sharp and piercing. The worst of it came from his lips. He was being dragged under. He let himself fall. 

Down, down, down.

Until the pain was nothing but a dream.

—— 

A dream he was woken up from. 

It was dark in the bathroom. The only light that came in was from under the crack in the door but even that looked obscured somehow. 

John had woken up to a loud banging sound. There were footsteps above him and shouting and the sharp, familiar sound of a gunshot. A lot more shouting and demands followed this but John couldn’t keep track of much else. 

He felt heavy and sore. His head seemed to weigh a thousand pounds and it felt as though someone were slowly running knives up and down his face. 

Every once and awhile John was startled out of his stupor by a faint splashing noise. When he finally gathered enough sense to look for the source he saw a small pool of blood. Several small pools of blood. His face was bleeding. 

John’s vision swam against the tile floor and he closed his eyes. He heard thumping and the sound of heavy things being lifted and moved. 

The rest felt a lot like the puddles below him. There was a lot spread out in small bursts. 

First there was the door being kicked in. John only heard the sound and felt the light on his skin. He blinked heavily. 

Then there was someone breathing his name. It sounded like someone had punched this person in the gut. This person knelt in front of John. They lowered their head to get into John’s slumped over line of sight. John tried to remember his name as this person said his own name again. Gavin… Graham… Greg. That was the one. 

Then there was this:

“Where, Lestrade?” 

“Sherlock, listen you-“

“Tell me.”

“Sherlock I’m trying to warn-“

“Greg! Fucking let me figure it out or tell me where to go. I know you found him. I know it’s bad. I saw the fucking pictures too! Now tell me where those imbeciles kept him.” 

Then it was quiet. 

John felt the world go very still. Someone else was kneeling in front of him now. It was harder to hear this person say his name. The voice was deep and familiar but John felt like he was floating in a new kind of world altogether. 

His doctor brain told him he had lost a lot of blood and suffered a lot of blunt force trauma. He was bound to be groggy and barely there right now. He didn’t know what kind of damage had been done to his face, but he knew it wasn’t helping. Any kind of infection could be affecting him now. 

His John Watson brain told him he was sinking through the floor. The person in front of him was barely there. If anything this person was in the way.

Let me sink, he thought, I’m tired of treading. 

“John.” 

The world sped back up. There was an extremely gentle hand pushing the bottom of his chin upwards. It was helping him do what he was trying to do in the first place. John was able to look up at Sherlock.

In an instant he knew how bad he must have looked. Sherlock was doing a hell of a job trying to hide it from the man, but John knew him too well. Even in this dreamy state he could see the fear in his eyes. 

The detectives eyes were flickering all over John’s face. They gathered up as much information as they could. Or at least as much as they wanted to. 

John had started trembling without knowing it. Wordlessly Sherlock sat up. He lowered John’s head gently and took his hand away. Sherlock then called for someone and the same man from before entered the room. Greg. It was Greg. Right. 

Together they undid John’s zip ties. Once he was freed from the position Sherlock pressed a hand on John’s chest. The doctor slumped forwards and let out a moan as his shoulders creaked and groaned back into their normal resting position. He felt another pair of hands on him helping his arms down as Sherlock slowly convinced John’s body to turn around. 

There was noise all around him. He heard a lot of people talking all at once during this movement of his sore body. All of them were pushed to one side of the room by Sherlock’s loud and deep voice. He heard a couple names and sounds he remembered, but it didn’t really matter. Sherlock. Sherlock. 

“Sh-“ John tried. He was blinking up at his partner who had finally got him to lie down on his back. His head was resting in Sherlock’s lap. The man nodded his head and went to stroke John’s cheek. Sherlock’s fingers hesitated in the air. John almost choked. “Sherl-“ He coughed only slightly. It was enough to make his face contort and writhe in pain. 

“Mnh-“ 

“Shh, John. Don’t say anything.” 

There were other hands on him now. The voices had started back up again. Paramedics were undoing his shirt and looking at his face. One of them put a hand over her mouth. Another gently asked Sherlock to move. He refused. They asked him again, insisting, and this time John refused. 

“I know he’s your partner but we really need to make sure the wounds on his face are-“

John tried to lift his hand when he felt Sherlock backing up from him. He made a pitiful noise and rolled his eyes, trying to search for Sherlock who had started drifting from his line of sight.

Sherlock and the paramedic exchanged a look before Sherlock was right back to where he was. 

“Here, John. Here.” He carded his fingers through John’s matted and sweaty hair. “I’m right here, love.”

John hummed in the back of his throat. He felt himself start to drift away again. Slowly he started seeping through the floor. 

“M be ‘ri back…” he mumbled almost inaudibly and unaware of how slurred his words were. Sherlock looked at him confused, until John’s eyes slipped shut and sank fully under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for ur kind comments on these little stories. I rly rly love reading what you have to say.


	6. Note from the stupid author

Hey guys so I apologize but I’m not actually posting a part two to chapter five on here. If you enjoyed the last chapter and want to keep reading about it though, I’m making a new long term work that goes off of that story. The first two chapters are already posted so you can get a little resolution if you were waiting for it.   
  


But yeah as always thanks for readin


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